


To Strike Fear In The Heart Of Men

by Tayathestrange



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Injury, Canon Era, Fights, Hunger Games, Kissing, M/M, Magic, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Romance, Violence, Weapons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:01:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21758749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tayathestrange/pseuds/Tayathestrange
Summary: They meet their fate just before the Games will make them enemies.Arthur, a well trained career of eighteen years, joins voluntarily to prove his worth.Merlin, a seventeen year old mage of the weakest rank, is reaped and forced to fight for his life.On the training grounds the first wave of resentment turns into overwhelming attraction that leads to an affair under the cover of night.Both revealing deeply hidden secrets in youthful ignorance, they say goodbye, knowing only one of them can survive.But will they be able to let the Games run their course when they meet again?
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 63
Collections: Merlin Holidays 2019





	To Strike Fear In The Heart Of Men

**Author's Note:**

  * For [oddishly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oddishly/gifts).



> Thank you my beloved giftee oddishly for providing me with the buzzword **Hunger Games** in your prompt. It gave me the perfect opportunity to think of a scenario including elements from one of my most favourite franchises. And since you wrote, that you love canon era fics, I thought I could write you some Hunger Games during the Merlin era. I'd love to write the whole story one day, seeing all the ideas I came up with while writing. Ideas that I could unfortunately not include. Right now I can only give a glimpse into the scenario that's been building in my head since I started writing this short scene. But I hope you'll like it nonetheless.
> 
> It's really funny, that I got the same giftee as last year and that you, once again, had certain elements in your request which led me to create a story for one of my favourite franchises. Last year it was "The Last Of Us" and this year it's "Hunger Games". And in both cases I wrote a scene that's actually part of a bigger story, that I really wanna write. How dare you inspire me?!!  
> But no, seriously, I'm so glad this happened, because I'm really pleased with the outcome. Without your request I would've probably never written anything in these universes. So thank you for liking the stuff I like.
> 
> This work was created as a part of the [Merlin Holidays Fest](https://merlin-holidays.livejournal.com/). A big thank you to the mods for running this wonderful fest once again~

Just like a hot knife through butter, Merlin thought, when the sword pierced the boy’s stomach. The bloody tip was protruding from his front, pointing right at him, just as the boy’s eyes. Widened in shock they stared into his, but not really seeing, not really understanding that he was already dead. Merlin remembered his name being Thomas, a Tribute from the Second Province, a Career; only sixteen but already deadly with the two bladed spear he was carrying as his favourite weapon. Said spear hit the ground a second later and Thomas fell forward, slipping off the blade directly into Merlin’s arms. He caught him more out of reflex than care, the boy’s weight and his own unsteady footing dragging his knees to the ground. When he looked up his eyes locked with Arthur’s, finding his gaze like a flame in the darkness, just like the first time. Holding the spoiled sword still in a tight grip, he appeared just as surprised as Thomas had been, just as puzzled as Merlin felt.  


Arthur could see the questions in Merlin’s eyes, the reproach, and he was right. Hadn’t they agreed to let the Games run their course? Knowing that only one of them could survive, hadn’t they sworn to let the other die, not to interfere? That this would be the right, the least hurtful way? It would erase what they had done and turn it into a bittersweet memory, a secret for only one of them to carry.  
Hadn’t they agreed?  
All this and more Merlin’s eyes were telling him, but he refused to listen. No matter what he said, what he promised in their last night alone, he couldn’t stand by and watch Merlin die. Even if his efforts were futile, only bound to end in tragedy, he would keep him alive as long as Merlin let him.  


It was easy to pinpoint the exact moment when Arthur made his decision. The apologetic curve of his eyebrows dropped and sharpened until a crease of determination appeared between them. He noticed Arthur’s grip around the handle of his sword tighten and just before he turned to raise it against the next opponent did his pale lips mouth something that was hard to decipher but could have been _forgive me_. When Merlin finally awoke from the frozen shock the turn of events had thrown him into Arthur was already deeply entangled in a fight with his former allies Mithian and Vivienne, Tributes from the First and Second Province and naturally Careers. Merlin knew that Arthur was strong and clever. As the governor’s son he had been trained as a soldier and a leader. He had not been reaped like Merlin, he had volunteered to be in the Games. For Arthur this was only supposed to be his last test before he would officially be instated as his father’s Second in Command and future governor of his province. For Arthur this was not supposed to be a fight for survival but an honour. But Merlin knew the truth. Nobody chose to be in the Games. Nobody ever really volunteered.  


When Vivienne landed her first hit it was only a scratch to Arthur’s upper arm, slicing through his leather jacket and red tunic with ease, but not cutting deep enough to do any considerable damage. Still, she had never managed to touch the edge of her dagger to his skin before. Fighting two opponents at once wore him out too quickly. While she assaulted him with both of her daggers in quick succession, Mithian would twirl behind him with her short sword, attacking his back and forcing him to twist and turn in a ridiculous manner. He was definitely not on top of the situation. Sweat broke out on his forehead and rolled into his eyes, but he couldn’t spare the time to wipe it away. Vivienne ripped another gash into the front of his tunic, but this time he was quick enough to draw away from her, leaving her to stagger with the momentum. The small victory wasn’t long lived though.  
“Arthur! Look out!” he heard Merlin shout, but it was too late, Mithian’s blade had already ripped through his side. He winced and staggered sideways, falling to one knee. Already, he could see Vivienne pursuing him once more, this time with triumph crowning her expression. But her finishing blow never came. Arthur couldn’t see why but all of the sudden she stumbled and crashed into the ground right in front of him. He was still staring at her groaning form when a gurgling from Mithian’s direction caught his attention.  


It was not quite like a knife through butter after all, Merlin thought as he watched the brunette girl crumble in front of him. Yes, the sharpness of the spear let it cut through skin and muscle quite easily but only to a certain point, after that it had taken an unexpected amount of strength to push the blade fully through her neck. The sensation of slicing through the flesh of another, forcing the sharp tip of the spear deeper and deeper, feeling muscles tear, bones crack, sent a cold shiver up his arms and down his spine. When she fell he held onto the weapon but it refused to dislodge so he toppled forward, right on top of her. To his horror he registered that Mithian wasn’t dead; she was still moving. Uncoordinated, her limbs spasmed, her trembling hands groping the rotten leaves under them, trying desperately to find something to hold onto. Her chest rose rapidly, somehow still dragging air through her destroyed throat. While Merlin held the girl down he slowly felt the life seep out of her.  


Merlin’s pale hands were still tightly wound around the spear handle when Arthur called out for him. Vivienne’s lifeless body was lying behind him, almost elegantly draped over a tree root. Even in death the princess from the Second Province kept her extravagance. When Merlin stumbled off Mithian and onto his feet he looked so frail that Arthur grabbed his upper arm to support him. As he met Merlin’s hollow gaze that was brimming with unshed tears his stomach coiled into a tight knot. He has never killed anyone before, Arthur thought, and I forced his hand. I did this. The desire to wrap Merlin’s slim body in his arms and grant him the comfort he needed, to shower him with apologies and lies of how it was gonna get easier, of how it wouldn’t haunt him for the rest of his life, became almost overwhelming. But there was no time. The vulnerability of their position crawled up his back and he fought down his urge to comfort the younger boy. Instead, Arthur pulled the spear from Mithian’s neck, ignoring the squelching noise it made, and wrapped his hand tightly around Merlin’s.  
“Come, let’s get out of here.”  


“Yeah”, Merlin nodded, trying to find his way back into a reality in which he had taken a life so easily. Arthur’s warm fingers wrapped around his grounded him. He took a deep breath, closing his eyes for just a moment, then he started running.

_Promise me Arthur, when you see me in the arena you’re not gonna know me.  
_

_What?  
_

_When we seperate tonight you’ll have to forget this. We both do. There’s no place for this in the Games. Do you understand?  
_

_Yes.  
_

_Then promise to let me die when the time comes. Will you do that for me?  
…  
_

_Arthur?  
_

_Yes.  
_

“You lied”, Merlin croaked as soon as they stepped into the cave. Arthur had spotted it behind a small waterfall that turned into a river which spilt the arena in half. The way inside included a bit of a hike, leaving both of them even more exhausted. Slipping his hand from Arthur’s Merlin walked further into the cave. Though he felt hot and sweaty his body was rigid, hard to move. He slung his arms around his upper half, hugging himself tightly, to suppress the shivers threatening to wreck him.  
“You lied to me about the promise. You said you’d pretend you didn’t know me. You said you’d let me die.” The accusation was hard on his tongue, but when the words actually left his mouth their sound was high pitched and broken.  


Arthur gulped heavily. Staring at Merlin’s back, seeing the slumped figure in front of him, he felt helpless. He stepped closer, raising his hand to reach out but Merlin half turned and shied away.  
“Don’t”, he said, as if he feared Arthur’s touch would hurt him even further. And maybe it will, Arthur thought.  
“I’m sorry.” That was all he could come up with. There was nothing else to say, no explanation to give.  


When Merlin heard the whispered apology, the amount of remorse in those two words twisted something in him. They made his heart ache. Turning and twisting the thing in his chest that had never been so present to him than when he was with this boy. Arthur Pendragon, whom he’d only known through official news or rumors brought by travelers before he had seen him at the parade for the first time. Before he had been reaped. How could it come to this, he wondered. How, in a matter of days, did his heart grow so deeply attached to someone who was still a stranger to him?  
Turning back around he took his first good look at the blond boy since they fled the clearing. His hair was matted and sweat soaked, his face dirty and gaunt, his clothes ripped in several places from Vivienne’s quick blades, because he had protected Merlin. Because Arthur rather jeopardised his position in the Games than watching him die. Was it selflessness or egoism? He couldn’t say. Maybe it was idiocy. His gaze fell to Arthur’s right hand, the one that had grabbed his own to take him away. It was bloody. With a sinking feeling in his stomach he raised his left, finding it just as blood stained.  
“You’re bleeding!” he blurted out.  


Only as Merlin mentioned it, did Arthur remember the stroke of Mithian’s sword to his side. He had touched the wound briefly but the rush of the fight had still been coursing through his veins and he had hardly felt any pain. His body seemed to realise the wound at the same moment. The cut started to burn, sharp pain spreading through his side and exhaustion claiming his limbs.  
“I...guess…”, he groaned dumbly, his head suddenly very slow.  
Merlin was at his side to steady him before he could topple over. He took the spear from his hand and slid the sword from his belt before helping Arthur to a dry spot on the stony ground.  
“Why didn’t you tell me, dollophead?” he chastised as soon as he had taken a better look at the wound.  
“Dollophead?” Arthur scoffed under his breath. “Is that another one...urgh..of your weird regional slurs? Like clotpole? Ah!”  


Ignoring Arthur’s question Merlin worked his right arm out of his thin leather jacket, aggravating the wound in the process.  
“Probably. Though clotpole is more along the lines of arrogant arse than complete idiot”, he answered at last while peeling Arthur’s blood soaked tunic from his skin. The cut was clean but deep. Arthur was lucky that it hadn’t reached the muscle, but it would still limit his movement to a dangerous extent. Such a wound was synonymous with death in the Games.  


A laugh bubbled up from Arthur’s chest. It’s release was painful but he enjoyed it nonetheless, being reminded of the first time they had spoken on the training grounds. He hadn’t paid much mind to the weird, gangly boy with the black bird’s nest for hair and ears as big as a donkey’s from the 7th Province, until he had surprised him. Arthur had been sparing with one of the mute servants that were provided for training. It was a boy of about fifteen years who was hardly a match for him but he hadn’t cared for that or for the fact that the boy was just as trapped as himself in the mill of the Games. Instead he had led his frustration run free until the boy was on the ground, covering himself with the shield he had been carrying and Arthur hacked away at the splintering wood without mercy. Nobody had dared to stop him but Merlin. He remembered slim long fingers closing surprisingly firm around his arm and pulling him away. He remembered fierce blue eyes in a concerned face. He remembered a calm voice. What he didn’t remember was what he said to Merlin after his helpless anger had evaporated. It must have been something offensive, motivated by embarrassment and resentment, because the concern vanished quickly and was replaced by outrage. He definitely remembered the words ‘clotpole’ and ‘arse’, Arthur thought, smiling to himself.  


“I’ll have to treat that”, Merlin said. When he looked into Arthur’s eyes he noticed the derpy smile plastered on his lips. “There’s really nothing funny about that.”  
“I know”, Arthur replied but didn’t stop smiling. Merlin fought down the urge to smack him over the head and started pulling medical supplies from the small pouch hanging from his belt. He had been lucky to acquire it at the start. Almost no one paid much mind to the healing arts when they entered the Games, eager to get their hands on the most promising weapons, only to perish from a minor injury one way or another. Though Merlin’s chances to leave the arena alive were more than slim he had sworn to not make the same mistake. At least he could honour his mother’s and uncle’s efforts to teach him their craft before the end. He ripped a stripe from Arthur's tunic, which earned him a half-hearted glare, and soaked it in a pool of clear water close to the mouth of the cave.  


Though Merlin was being gentle the cleaning process was agonising, as if Mithian’s blade had come back to haunt him, to punish him for killing her over a boy from a Third Level province. If they hadn’t entered the Games together, Arthur wondered what would’ve become of them. Just like him she was from an important family in the First Province that was on good terms with the royal court due to her mother’s excellent jewelry manufacturing. They hadn’t been friends exactly but known each other from school and social events. In some unknown future his father might have arranged an engagement for them and Arthur would’ve done his duty and married her, like the responsible and cowardly son he was. Or rather; used to be.  
He was drawn from the thoughts, which had thankfully distracted him from the pain, when a comfortable warmth began to seep into the cut. It sank deep beneath his skin like a soothing touch, spreading through his side and caressing the ache until only a light tingle remained.  


After getting rid of the blood obscuring the wound Merlin had coated it in a clear liquid from a small vial that was among his supplies. The ointment was a more sophisticated and effective version of an herbal sooth his mother would use to support wound healing and prevent blood poisoning. To his luck he had found it among the samples of medical supplies in the training rooms. The medicine had been created by a skilled healer and would’ve probably done wonders on its own, but it would still take hours until the cut had healed enough for Arthur to move properly; and in here nobody had time to spare.  


Merlin’s pale hand was covering the wound, pressing down gently on his skin. Arthur could feel the warmth radiating from its touch. But he wasn’t looking at Merlin’s hand. He was looking at his eyes. The dark blue crystals, that had followed him into his dreams after the first day of training, were gone, replaced by swirls of golden light, burning bright and warm, obscuring Merlin’s pupils. There was something not fully human about him in those moments, like he didn’t belong in the world of mere mortals, Arthur thought.  


When he looked up and caught Arthur’s eyes he was surprised to find in them the same expression of wonder he had worn when Merlin had done magic for him. Far up in their hiding spot, an unoccupied tower overseeing the training grounds, the older boy had pestered him until Merlin would conjure butterflies of blue light and dragons made from golden sparks. At first he had been anxious. His mother would always warn him from letting anyone see too much of his abilities; even harmless illusions like these could create suspicion. But all Arthur had given him was boyish delight at the sight of the glowing creatures and that look of adoration and amazement as their eyes met.  
It was difficult to comprehend how that moment came to be after their first initial meeting.

_Hey, come on, calm down. It’s alright. I’m scared, too. But it won’t help if you kill one of us, my friend.  
_

_Do I… know you…?  
_

_Uh, what? I… I don’t think-  
_

_So, if I don’t know you, what gives a backwater village idiot with ears as big as tents the right to call me ‘friend’?  
_

_Oh right, my bet. I could never have a friend who’s such an arrogant arse!  
_

_You can’t call me that!  
_

_Then how about clotpole?!  
_

Merlin had been right; he had been an arse and a clotpole, and he had abused the mute boy. Still, Arthur wanted to punish that rebellious Tribute who, in his mind, couldn’t hold a candle to him. He had challenged him to a training fight the next day, cocksure that he would put him in his place. Taunting him, he had tried to bring him off kilter and laughed as the unathletic boy stumbled around like an idiot to avoid any hits from Arthur’s wooden sword. Victory had seemed sweet and easy. But then something strange happened; as he attempted to move up close for the final strike his foot wouldn’t budge, bringing him off balance. It lasted only for a heartbeat but it was enough for Merlin to get away. Then it happened again, and again, turning Arthur into the one stumbling around while Merlin’s twists and turns to avoid him grew more confident. For a short while it actually seemed like the village boy would beat him. But in the end Arthur brought more skill and stamina to the table, disarming Merlin at last and pinning him to the floor, blunt sword tip slightly digging into the pale long neck. Merlin had only stared at him. Breath going heavily, lips and cheeks flush with the exertion, his eyes shone with an intensity that didn’t seem to stem from fear or resentment.  


The air between them changed after the fight. Vanished had the cold from indifference and evaporated the crackling tension of anger. Instead there was a pull one would only find in metal pieces sometimes, growing stronger the closer they came. They passed heated glances that had Merlin’s skin tingle for hours. When night came he was grateful for the stone walls of his private room; a luxury he never had back home. Whenever he thought of Arthur he felt an urge to invade his space, get closer until their bodies would lay flush against each other, until they would finally breathe the same air and he could taste that mouth that had spit mean words into his face out of misplaced anger. He could not remember having ever felt attraction to this amount. There had been other boys his age from his village and once even a man he had admired and dreamed about, but he knew that his preferences were not welcome and so he had hidden them just like most of his magic. But Arthur’s looks told him that they were the same and with every day that passed his wish grew to find out if it was true.  


Merlin’s change in demeanor had not escaped Arthur. He revelled in the curious attention those piercing blue eyes were giving him. The Tribute from the 7th Province wouldn’t be the first boy Arthur _courted_ but he would definitely be the most interesting. Merlin had something about him that he couldn’t pin down, and what he felt for him was more than mere attraction; it was an urge, an incredible need to touch and feel and possess, to know what it would be like. Restless days went by in which the Games were almost forgotten, replaced by phantasies of this boy writhing beneath or above him, plush lips sealing his own, mouth whispering his name over and over, until he made a decision.  


The night a mute servant girl knocked on his door and pulled his sleepy but increasingly scared form through the moonlit corridors still lingered vividly in Merlin’s memory. There had been no guards. For long minutes he had been convinced they discovered the extent of his abilities and he was about to disappear without a trace. When they reached the foot of the stairs to one of the watchtowers she had only pointed upwards, nodding with intent written over her features. Clueless to his fate and scared of what would happen if he tried to escape he had no choice but to follow the winding steps with a quickening heartbeat that resonated so strongly through his chest and up his throat that it nearly suffocated him.  


In the moonlight Merlin had seemed even paler. His eyes were big and round with confusion and fear, and Arthur almost expected him to be infuriated by this scheme, to shout and fight, to turn around and flee. Instead Merlin stood frozen at the top of the stairs for several seconds before breathlessly whispering “Arthur”. It was the first time he had heard his name uttered by those lips. The sound vibrated from his ears through his body, crawled under his skin and made heat pool in his groin. It made his head spin like sweet wine and his blood rush like a challenging duel. His memories were a blur after that. He had tried to answer with Merlin’s name in return, but suddenly the other tribute had been flush against his body, hands grabbing his head and hot lips sealing his own just like he had dreamed. They had fallen into a tangle on the floor, hands roaming over partially exposed skin, moans and whimpers filling the air, rutting against each other, too uncoordinated to get off their clothes. No words were said in these breathless minutes, no thoughts other then the ones of relief occupying Arthur’s mind and when he came embarrassingly quickly, Merlin following him right over the edge, the pleasure left him in an impenetrable haze, in which he still clung to the heated body in his arms as the only thing rooting him to this world.  


Writhing with another tribute on the floor of an abandoned tower, only days before the Games would make them enemies, should have filled him with dread and shame. He should’ve been angry and afraid. Instead Merlin’s head was spinning with bliss. Nobody’s arms would ever fit so well around him, no one’s body mould so perfectly against his. No lips would ever taste as sweet on his. In this moment, wrapped in Arthur’s warmth, he was thankful for the knowledge that he’d be dead in a few days. Because nothing that came after Arthur’s touch would ever compare.  


As the gold slowly vanished from Merlin’s eyes his hand slipped from Arthur’s side. The cold air brushing against the sensitive spot made its absence known immediately. For the span of a heartbeat he wanted to reach out and bring it back, but thought the better of it when he remembered the scrying spells around them. Enchantments around the arena brought the fate of the tributes to every citizen of Albion. The same ones had been used in the castle and only enough bribery had given him the chance to meet with Merlin unseen in that first night. The nights that followed were only possible due to Merlin’s exceptional and very well hidden talents.  
Touching his side Arthur felt the scar that had formed on his skin. What had been a wound deep enough to take several weeks of healing was almost gone by a wave of Merlin’s hand. His heart skipped upon the thought. Magic wielder were not uncommon in Albion, but only a few with significant power existed. Every child which showed promise beyond basic abilities like moving small objects, heating water or weak healing magic was taken from their families to be trained in Camelot and become a government appointed sorcerer. Many of them worked to run the Games or as part of the armed forces. Such a career always seemed like a great opportunity to Arthur when he was younger and he envied any of his classmates who made the cut. Only years later did he understand that these children were only being freed from the bars of the provinces to be bound by the shackles of the capital. Thinking of his former friends, faces now gaunt and lifeless, spellbound by chains to keep them from accessing their magic freely, he understood why Merlin would pretend to be lesser. For the Games he was registered as a mage of the third class with a talent for healing spells. How far his power reached beyond that Arthur couldn’t say, but if he was capable to manipulate scrying spells and hide the true extent of his magic from the capital’s elites, he had to be an extraordinary sorcerer. And Arthur could feel it, in moments when they were close and Merlin was willing to let his guard down just a little, to let his magic burn with more intensity than usual, the immense energy that was crackling under his skin, begging to be freed, to be used, to soar up into the sky and wreck havoc among the stars.  


“It’s not pretty but it’ll hold”, Merlin said, observing Arthur as he fumbled the scar. “And with a battle wound like that the ladies will swoon even more over you.” He tried to keep it light hearted but some bitterness crept into his voice at the end. To know that Arthur would walk out of the arena without him, to be the celebrated victor who would inherit his father’s position and marry a comely wife, turned his stomach. When they said goodbye he had made peace with the thought. Being this close again, feeling the heat radiating from Arthur’s body, touching this golden skin once more, made him realise that he would never be at peace again if he had to live without it.  


Snorting at Merlin’s comment Arthur pushed his blood crusted tunic down.  
“I never cared much for swooning ladies”, he started to joke along. Then he noticed the expression on Merlin’s face. He was avoiding Arthur’s gaze, a deep crease forming between his eyebrows, a tremble in his lower lip. “Merlin? What’s wrong?”  


The tears began to fall before he even realised they had formed. Suddenly he could feel the wetness coating his cheeks in long streaks and drops forming on his jaw to tickle his chin. He cried in silence, but Arthur could still see and would still care, and it would make things so much harder.  
“If you’d kept your promise, I’d be dead by now”, he said, forcing the words through his constricted throat. “I...wouldn’t’ve touched you again...only to remember that I could never have this…”  


A familiar ache returned to Arthur’s chest as he watched Merlin weep. It had been unknown to him before he met this boy, but he had learned it well in the last few days. Being neither desire nor longing; not even missing described what was eating away at his heart and made itself known once more. The only thing that appeared to fit was grief. Grief of a loss that had not yet happened. The night before the Games, after they said their goodbyes and he had promised Merlin to let him die, it had crashed over him like a tidal wave and he had weeped into his pillows. But not quietly, like him, instead he had whimpered and sobbed until he passed out from exhaustion. He had known since then that he wouldn’t be able to accept Merlin’s death. In thought he had broken his promise as soon as the Games began.  
“Merlin, how much of our conversation did they hear?”  
The question took several seconds to reach Merlin through the haze of tears and whirling thoughts. He looked at Arthur in confusion.  
“What?”  
“The skyring spells; did you do something to them?”  
“Uhm, yeah, since we got into the cave”, he mumbled, brushing a new wave of tears from his eyes. He could detect concern in Arthur’s face.  
“You have obscured us for so long? Don’t you think that’s suspicious?”  
“No, I've just overloaded a layline nearby a bit to obscure our words. They can still see us. What’s this about?” Merlin asked at last, annoyance distracting him from the hopelessness in his chest.  
Arthur grinned. The sheer amount of Merlin’s powers had excitement crawl under his skin. “Could you overload it a bit more for just a moment? To mess with the view as well?”  
“I could... but why?”  
“Just do it, please.”  


There was a sudden mischievous expression in Arthur’s features. The way his light blue eyes gleamed with eagerness let goosebumps from all over Merlin’s body. A shiver rolled along his spine.  
“Alright”, he whispered and closed his lids. With the next breath he directed the energy coursing through his veins deep into the rocky earth, seeking out a source of similar origin that was greeting him like a long lost friend. The sweet caress of the power the ground was holding exhilarated him every time, assuring him where he belonged. When the connection was made he pushed some of his own into the vein, fueling it to the brim with magic.  


Arthur could sense it; the crackle of energy around him, like lightning hanging in the air, eager to strike. It built until the hairs on his arms stood up and even the ones on his head started to lift. The same was happening to Merlin. His sorcerer’s eyes shone brightly now, his closed lids insufficient to obscure the amount of power that was roaming through his lean form. It was the most beautiful sight and Arthur would move worlds to see it again. Laying his palms gently around Merlin’s head he leaned in to claim his lips and taste the spice of magic on them.  


Merlin’s lids opened and for a moment he was afraid his connection to the layline would be severed, ripped apart by his loss of control. The sensation of Arthur’s mouth on his created a different surge of energy in his limbs; a fluttering of feather light wings at his core that lead waves of warmth through his veins. Just as the touch of Arthur’s hand had before, his closeness grounded Merlin. But it also excited him. To his surprise another strand of magic reached out, unbidden and intensely, though not towards the magnetic power of the layline; instead it wrapped around Arthur, pulling him towards Merlin quicker than he was able to move. Winding his arms around Arthur’s neck he slipped onto the older boy’s lap and opened his mouth to taste him once again.  


When he felt the pull of energy dragging him forward Arthur huffed into the kiss, but he didn’t panic. The intimate touch of a force that screamed _Merlin_ in all its being made him shiver and tremble. He could feel his heart bursting with adoration and joy for the boy in his arms; his mage who would conquer the world. When their tongues touched a sizzling sensation arose, reminding him of sparks flying by the swing of the blacksmith’s hammer. It thrummed through his body in an exhilarating rhythm, aligning his heart beat with Merlin’s, connecting Arthur’s senses to his and letting him feel what he felt deep down in the bowels of the earth; a network of energy linking all of Albion, harbouring the power to destroy their shackles.  


The kiss was eternity and absence of time all at once. He had molten into the older boy, his lips, his body, his smell, his soul. The free reign of his magic had dissolved his physical form and all that was left had taken refuge in Arthur. He was not his own anymore and he never would be again. As the connection to the layline dissipated, his magic gradually coiling back into him, its tendrils reluctant to let go of the blond, Merlin started gulping the air, filling his empty lungs as if he had been drowning. Arms now protectively clutched around Arthur’s head he lay his own on top of it, struggling to come back to himself.  


At some point Arthur’s hands had slipped from Merlin’s face to his back. His palms had spread themselves over the rough tunic, mourning the fabric that kept him from direct touch. While catching his breath he could feel their connection weaken. His senses were severed from Merlin’s, his body reshaped to its old self, the air in his lungs his own again. Winding his arms tighter around Merlin’s torso he pressed closer, fighting to preserve the sensation of being one and the same with the mage. Only now could he feel panic rise in his chest. Losing their connection was like a limp being ripped from him and he couldn’t let this happen. He was already opening his mouth; though unable to remember how to speak, he wanted to beg Merlin to do it again, to reach out with his magic, make him whole once more.  
Then he heard it close under his ear that was pressed to the mage’s chest; a heartbeat. Merlin’s heartbeat, following the same rhythm that was thrumming inside Arthur. Their connection was not lost.  


When Arthur’s desperate clutch around him loosened Merlin dared to lean back and see what he could find in his eyes. The sheer force he had left to roam through Arthur’s form had felt intimidating, even to himself, but there was no apprehension or fear in the older boy’s expression. Instead his eyes shimmered wide and brilliant with something that had never been directed at Merlin; devotion. Bringing his hands to Arthur’s heated cheeks he cradled his face between his palms.  
“How do you feel?”  


“Brilliant”, Arthur grinned, letting his fingers caress Merlin’s back, “just brilliant.” Some speckles of gold still remained to swirl in Merlin’s gaze, but it faded gradually.  
“How long until they can see and hear us again?”  
The corners of his mouth pulling down Merlin’s head dipped to the side, contemplating.  


“I’m not sure. I kind of lost control for a moment when you uhm …”  
“When I started snogging you?” Arthur provided in the most unhelpful way. Merlin could feel a blush creep over his face.  
“Yeah, well, I might’ve pushed more magic into the layline than I had planned, so it might’ve completely overloaded.”  
“And that means?”  
“That most spellwork around the arena has either been strongly damaged or become completely undone? At least, that’s what it feels like. I can’t be sure until the layline has balanced out again.” Only when the words had left his mouth did Merlin realise the extent of what he just said. Of what he had done. What he was capable of. The excitement blooming on Arthur’s face told him that he had understood as well.  


“You’re amazing”, Arthur whispered breathlessly. “All this power bending to your will.”  
But despite the miracle Merlin had worked Arthur could see concern creasing his face.  
“Now they’ll know it’s me. I won’t be able to hide any longer. What if they come for my mother now? For my uncle? Or anyone else I know?” Panic rose in Merlin’s voice, laying its constricting claw around his chest. “What if they come for you?”  
A soft smile appeared on Arthur lips as Merlin uttered those sorrowful words. He shook his head and pressed another kiss to the mage’s mouth, the touch brimming with the overwhelming adoration that had built up in his heart.  
“Nobody’s gonna come for you”, he said.  
The crease between Merlin’s brows deepened, confusion spreading over his face. “How do you know that?”  
Arthur’s grin became so broad that it threatened to split his face in half. “Because for the first time in their lives they’re the ones being afraid.”

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't think too long and hard about the background of the games in this medieval setting. Why would Albion have them? If Uther's not king who is the one in power? How long has this been going on? Etc etc  
> I only came up with the word 'province' for the different areas because I didn't wanna rip off Hunger Games too directly by using 'district' XD If I ever write the full version of this, I'll probably put more thought into the details and the history of this scenario. (There are 9 Provinces, btw. Why? dunno. 9 Provinces and 18 Triutes just sounded good in my head lol)  
> At the very least I think a scenario like the Hunger Games works well in the world of Merlin. Having magic thrown into the mix is definitely interesting and worth to be explored. Since some of the technical advances they have in the actual books seem like magic it's not even too far from the source material.  
> Will I ever make this into a full-length fanfic? Stay tuned.


End file.
